


pushing daisies (through the grave dirt)

by thefireplanet



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bromance, Pushing Daises AU, more if you squint/want it, side-helping of Dwalin/Dís cause they are my headcanon, the one where Kíli's touch is life and death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefireplanet/pseuds/thefireplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that cannot be explained. There are some things that just are. For instance: Thorin is more intimidating than a wood elf. Dís could skin a bear if she wanted. Fíli had blue eyes and blonde hair. </p>
<p>And Kíli? Kíli's touch could raise the dead. </p>
<p>(But everything comes at a price.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	pushing daisies (through the grave dirt)

**i.**

There are some things that cannot be explained. There are some things that just _are_.

Kíli (sixteen years, twelve hours, twelve minutes, thirty-seven seconds) is running through the mines of Ered Luin, following his brother, Fíli (twenty-one years, seven hours, four minutes, forty-four seconds), through the milky darkness, thin, slim path lined with silver ore and gleaming in the dark of the mine. He is laughing, and smiling, and managing to keep good time with the mane of gold in front of him—

Until, that is, he slips, tips off the side of the path, and falls twenty feet to the ledge below.

Luckily there’s a miner there to break his fall.

Kíli (sixteen years, twelve hours, fourteen minutes, twenty-six seconds) has the wind knocked out of him, and badly twists his ankle, and so it takes a moment for the young dwarf to right himself, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. When he finally does, lumpy, uncomfortable bone and metal beneath him, he twists and finds himself face-to-face with one Darr (one-hundred-sixty-six years, fifty-two hours, one minute, four seconds)—

Whose neck is, unfortunately, quite broken.

There is yelling coming from around the bend in the path ahead— _I heard something awful soundin’, ye alright_ —and shouting from the path above— _Kíli! KÍLI!—_ and the young dwarf blinks, rapidly, scuffing the palm of his dirt-encrusted hand across his nose, before reaching forward and prodding the limp dwarf on the cheek.

It only takes one touch.

Darr’s neck snaps back in place and he sits up, gasping, beard flying. Kíli scuttles backward, looking between the man and his pointed finger, the man looking between Kíli and the ledge, and this staring continues for quite some time—

Until, at last, Tyr (one-hundred-twenty-two years, four hours, four minutes, five seconds) rounds the bend, panting heavily under pounds of climbing gear, to see what had happened, and promptly dies of a heart-attack, falling sideways off the mountain face and into the dark depths below.

Somewhere, you see, a minute had passed. It was certainly hard to keep track of something like that, in the dark of the mountains, and the blame for it should not have been placed on little Kíli—

But he placed the blame on himself, anyway, and would not stop crying even after his brother had managed to scrabble down several precarious ladders and come barreling to his rescue. Darr (one-hundred-sixty-six years, fifty-two hours, two minutes, five seconds) could not explain what had happened, only that Tyr (deceased) was quite gone.

The funeral is held the next day.

And Kíli is given a splint for his ankle.

* * *

**ii.**

Some deaths aren’t all that heroic, is the problem. 

Kíli tells no one of his gift, not even his brother, and for a long while after the mine incident he refuses to be touched. This irks Fíli to no end, for something is _wrong_ and he can _feel_ it, but can’t do anything about it if his brother will not tell him. Instead Kíli sits in bed, settled on his hands, foot elevated, and stares resolutely at the wall of their shared room.

His mother makes him a lot of soup.

For two week he does this,  watching the ugly purple bruise fade to something green and then yellow, the swelling recede, until he is quite sick of soup and feeding it in secret to the plants outside his window, which is why they slowly begin to wither and die, white petals curling on themselves, stems turning brown. Kíli lets them almost fade.

Almost.

One afternoon, after the flowers’ daily dose of chicken broth, he settles upon the window ledge and unclenches his hand. His fingers hurt, because he had been keeping them so long tied, and slowly, slowly, fighting the ache and the fear, he reaches down and touches the tip of one bloom.

Immediately the withered brown turns green. The white petals unfurl in the midday sun, and the bush becomes thick and round with new life.

Somewhere, a minute passes.

And a crow falls dead out of the sky, to land in the road. Kíli watches its descent, before going back inside, shutting the window, and throwing the terracotta bowl that had previously held his soup against the far wall. It shatters instantly, raining jagged pieces to the ground with a sound like chimes. The yellow-brown broth drips down the wall like blood.

The door flies open immediately, and his brother enters.

First question: “Are you hurt?”

Kíli, holding back tears, shakes his head.

Second question: “What happened?”

Kíli, biting his lip, shakes his head.

Third question: “What’s _wrong_?”

Kíli, finally crying, shakes his head. Fíli crosses the room to the window in three easy strides and tries to envelop him in a warm, comforting hug, only Kíli shies away into the corner, resisting even as Fíli finally fishes him out.

Kíli was afraid, you see. But Fíli was very much alive, and remained so, even as his brother tentatively returned the hug and cried into his shoulder.

Some deaths aren’t all that heroic, is the problem. 

Kíli’s ankle heals well. In another two days he can stand on it. On the third, he manages to hobble from his room and into the kitchen, finally helping himself to the meat that he was dearly beginning to miss. On the fourth he races around in the yard, tumbling in the grass and wrestling with his brother.

On the fifth, his father takes him hunting.

Víli (one-hundred-sixteen years, thirty-two hours, seven minutes, eleven seconds) is a proficient swords-dwarf, axe-wielder, and forger, but sometimes fate has other plans.

He slays the boar, but not before one of the tusks rips apart his stomach, shredding it to a bloody, pulpy mess. Kíli was tangled in some weeds when it happened. His father had tossed him far and long, out of the path of the raging animal, so that by the time he reaches him Víli has breathed his last.

Kíli finds he is not sad. Instead he holds out one shaking finger and holds his breath and touches his father on the cheek.

Víli’s eyes flash open. He gulps for air like a man drowning. The skin of his stomach knits itself together. His blue eyes flick to the fallen animal, then to he son, and he does what any father would normally do—

He reaches forward to hug his boy, smile on his face.

As soon as Kíli feels the rough stubble of the edges of his father’s beard brush his face, Víli falls back dead.

Kíli’s brows knit in confusion. He holds out his finger, holds his breath, and pokes his father’s cheek.

Nothing.

“Da?”

Again.

Nothing.

“Papa?”

Every gift, you see, comes at a price. Kíli’s just happened to have two.

They find him, as the night is coming on—Mister Dwalin first, and his call brings his mother running, and then his uncle, but his brother beats them all, skittering to a stop, unable to understand why Kíli thinks this is somehow his fault.

Life, unfortunately, moves on.

* * *

 

**iii.**

Kíli (thirty-one years, three hours, twelve minutes, four seconds) is practicing archery, much to the chagrin of his watching uncle—perhaps more to his uncle’s chagrin is the fact that he is actually _good_.

Kíli, stepping sideways easily, delivers four almost-bull’s-eyes into the red-painted centers of his practice targets. At the end of his run he turns a nervous gaze over his shoulder to where his uncle sits, frowning.

“That was amazing!” his brother roars, coming at him from the side and pouncing, like a lion, one arm slung around his shoulder. Fíli (thirty-six years, seven hours, eleven minutes, three seconds) does not notice—or choses not to draw attention to—the way his brother flinches at the touch. Kíli, for his part, relaxes exactly three seconds after the touch happens and nothing _happens_ , if you’ll catch my drift.

Of all the dwarves in Ered Luin, of all the men in the world, of all the elves in their distant seats, only Fíli was allowed to touch him, and only because Kíli had decided, very early on, that he should only risk one, and if he could only risk one then he was going to be selfish, and if he was going to be selfish he was going to choose his brother. (His mother chalked it up to trauma, and still attempted to weedle close with surprise pecks on the cheeks. He became very adept at dodging all forms of affection.)

Fíli had a beard coming in nice and thick; broad-shouldered and stocky, he was quickly becoming the kind of dwarf all the lasses swooned after—but what Kíli lacked in beard and shoulder-width he made up for in height. Already he was cresting the top of Fíli’s chin, and growing more each day. He says, “I was several inches off, at the last—“

“Oh, shove off, you bloody show-pony.” Fíli ruffles his hair good-naturedly. “You’re nearly as good as an el—“ He stops short, abruptly, eyes flicking to Thorin (one-hundred-nineteen years, three hours, twelve minutes, thirty seconds), before continuing, “nearly as good as el—elk shooting. You’d be really good at elk shooting.”

Kíli shoves his brother off of him and turns. “What do you think, Uncle?”

Thorin’s brows are heavy, his mouth a thin line, yet he says, slowly, “There has been some improvement,” in that serious, gravel voice of his.

Kíli turns to his brother, barely containing his grin.

“Boys!” His mother stomps out of the house, wielding a ferocious looking wooden spoon and a frown. Dwalin follows her, licking the pads of his finger, and she raps them sharply but fondly. “Guess who ate before his time?”

“Aw, Dís,” Dwalin fights a grin, “no one can resist yer soup.”

“I can,” Kíli mutters under his breath. Fíli elbows him sharply.

“Well, now we don’t have near enough for dinner. Can you go fetch me some pheasants?” She calls to them, sending another rap across Dwalin’s knuckles. Thorin, grumbling, edges between them and inside.

Kíli slings his bow across his back. Fíli is already pulling at his hood.

“We’ll fetch you a whole buck, mother dear!” His brother calls.

“A bear!”

“Two bears!”

“And a doe!”

“ _Two_ does!”

“I just want two _pheasants_ , boys. _Boys_ —“

Her words are lost as they tramp-stamp into the forest.

There is very little that goes right from the start.

Kíli’s ankle begins hurting him, for no particular reason. He hobbles along behind, complaining loudly enough to scare away the smaller game. Fíli, for his part, is attempting to be sympathetic to his brother and a good hunter at the same time, which—though his swords are drawn and ready—is a rather difficult thing to manage.

“I mean, it hasn’t hurt this much in _ages_. What do you think’s wrong with it, then?”

“Do you see Mister Dwalin and Mother together?”

Kíli frowns at the sudden change in subject, ducking under a wild branch. “Earlier I did, aye.”

“No, I mean—do you _see_ see.”

“What are you talking about.”

“I mean—“ Fíli frowns, pausing, hacking his blade none too quietly through an overgrown bush and pushing through it, eyes scanning for anything big, anything edible. “I mean, she’s very. Happy, around him.”

“Aye, I suppose.” Kíli frowns at his boots, then raises his eyebrows slowly, epiphany dawning on him. “You don’t suppose—“

“Aye, I suppose.”

“But—it’s Mister _Dwalin_! And—and _Mother_!”

“I heard her talking once, about how she used to like him, way back before Da.”

Kíli puckers his lips, bites down on the top hard, and doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Fíli waits patiently.

“Still, that’s disgusting.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“You’ve always been weird,” Kíli sniffs.

They’ve reached a small clearing, where the grass had recently been padded and trampled down. Fíli sighs, lowering his sword and looking every which way. Kíli stops beside him.

“There’s nothing.”

“We’re horrible hunters, aren’t we?”

“Aye, I suppose—“

It is a second. The snapping of a branch. The too-late warning of a snarl. Then the trees ahead burst open and the largest wolf—not even a proper wolf, with head too big and jaws too wide—Kíli has even seen is tumbling into the clearing.

“Warg!” Fíli warns, sword up. Kíli’s bow is ready, and he shoots, but not fast enough, not well enough, and like something out of a nightmare the thing clamps its jaws around Fíli’s arm, swings him up, and sends his brother smashing into the ground.

Kíli hears, very clearly, the crack of skull, the shatter of bone.

Then Fíli is flying, motionless, to land several feet away.

The warg advances, growling, snarling, redder than red blood dripping from its lips, and Kíli’s vision tunnels to a point.

A small, small point.

The warg (four years, three-hundred hours, eleven minutes, two seconds) snaps its jaws.

Kíli sends, very quickly, two arrows into its eyes, so it reels back, howling in pain. Then he races towards his brother.

Fíli is gone, was probably gone when he hit the ground. Kíli falls to his knees, hands fisting in his hair, oblivious to the vicious snarls behind him, the heavy footfalls of the monster, oblivious to everything except his brother’s face—

His eyes are close. His mouth is drawn. He is pale, head dented, bleeding. Kíli chokes on his saliva and struggles to breathe and reaches down and holds his forehead to his brother’s, still warm with life.

“Please, please, please—“ he cries.

Fíli’s eyes shoot open.

Kíli lets go and scuttles back, as far as he can, counting silently in his head—

_Forty, forty-one—_

Fíli is rubbing his head, looking confused and disoriented. The warg stumbles drunkenly sideways, but catches the scent of dwarf blood and twirls around—

_Fifty-six, fifty-seven_ —

The warg drops dead.

Kíli watches his brother. Fíli is looking at his hands, and they are shaking, badly. Blue eyes look up and meet his own and Fíli can’t even manage a word, can’t even get to his feet—

And Kíli, with a sudden, sickening pit in his stomach, realizes that he can’t help.

* * *

 

**iv.**

The problem was that touching Fíli came as naturally to him as breathing.

It was the friendly pat on the back, the one armed hug, the assured grasp on his elbow, the slap, the punch, the brush of hands as they fought for dinner portions.

They come back and their mother thinks they’ve had a row, because Fíli is pale and shaken and Kíli is standing near ten feet behind him. There are no birds in sight, but one small, sad rabbit, an arrow protruding through its middle and skewering most of the meet. Kíli goes straight to their shared room, grabs a blanket, and settles himself on the back lawn, under the stars.

Fíli does not try to get him.

They dance around each other for weeks, which was understandable, don’t you think? One wrong move, and Fíli would be gone.

Forever.

Exactly three weeks after the hunting incident Dís (one-hundred-ten years, three-hundred hours, seventeen minutes, six seconds) breaks down in the parlor, where she is sharpening her axe against a whetstone and watching Kíli whittle the handle of his bow, tucked into the far corner, and Fíli smoking his pipe, settled against the other window. The blade cracks, and sparks, and she lifts it with a grunt and says, “All right. Out with it, now. Who did what, and who must apologize first?”

Kíli looks quickly at his brother. He feels the heat of shame enter his cheeks, and flexes his fingers. They are hidden behind thick leather gloves that hadn’t yet become supple. In fact, aside from his neck—slowly being covered by the thin layer of weak stubble he was cultivating—and his face, every inch of him was covered. Fíli sucks deep on his pipe, after a beat, and blows out a perfect smoke ring, which floats several feet into the room.

Kíli swallows, fighting a smile, because it had been his favorite thing to see as a dwarfling.

“No one did anything, Mother,” Fíli says at last.

“Oh, really? The last time you treated each other as such, you had accidentally broken Kíli’s bow.”

“It was not an accident,” Kíli breaks in, softly, blowing away the wood chips before him. He looks up, frowning. “Fíli had wanted to learn, but he’s a horrible shot.”

“We can’t all be like the elves, can we?” Fíli snaps, and Kíli knows his brother is referring to more than just his skill—

To his appearance, too. Tall, thin. Rather gangly, for a dwarf.

“Well, we can’t all be perfect, can we?” He retorts, angrily shoving his knife into the soft wood.

“Boys,” their mother begins, warningly. Then she sighs, tired. “Look here. You two need to work this out. You’re _brothers_. Mahal help me.” She sets the axe down and continues, “I need leather strips, from the blacksmith in town. You two go and get me some. There are coppers on the kitchen table. “

Kíli says nothing, and for a moment neither does his brother, but then the chair moves and the pipe is extinguished, and Fíli is tramping into the kitchen. After a sigh, Kíli follows.

The road to the human town was dusty, and hardly used, except by the rare merchant and the rarer travelling dwarf. Fíli walks along the left side of it, Kíli the right, and both kick at the gravel and weeds beneath their feet. The sun is hot, and Kíli is stifling, dying. Half-way to town, well out of ear shot of any dwarf or man, Fíli finally speaks.

“We cannot live in fear.”

“Oh, yes,” Kíli says, quickly. “We can. One wrong move, and I will kill you.”

“I already died.”

“So then you will again!”

Fíli pauses, and then he asks the question that Kíli knows he’s been dying to ask since he figured everything out. “Why did you not save father?”

“Why do you think?” Kíli grits out, bitterly, quickly, flashing an angry glare towards his brother. Fíli looked so much like him. The sharp, blue eyes, the golden hair. Kíli had inherited the darker complexion of the Durin line, and the strange height from who-knows-where. He closes his eyes and sees his father’s dying face. Opens them, and sees Fíli’s.

“I don’t know what to think any more.”

“Who the _fuck_ do you think killed him?” Kíli shouts at last, stopping, and swinging around. His hands are clenched into loose fists beneath thick gloves.

Fíli’s eyes widen. “You didn’t know—“

“Who cares? Killing is killing, whether you know or not.”

“I don’t blame you. Nobody blames you—“

“I blame me!”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t want this. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t want it.”

“You saved me.”

“At what cost?”

They are facing each other angrily, these brothers, and the road might as well be the sea, except then Fíli crosses it in two steps and grabs one of Kíli’s clenched hands. Immediately he stumbles back, flinching, afraid, but the leather stops whatever his skin does and nothing happens.

“We’re in this together,” Fíli whispers, “you and I. Together, or not at all.”

Kíli wants desperately to believe him.

So he slowly unclenches his hand and does. 

* * *

 

**v.**

Kíli (sixty-eight years, twenty-two hours, eighteen minutes, four seconds) is lying on his bed. He’s on his side, facing his brother, who is readying to get into the second bed across from him, stripping to small clothes. Kíli comments, casually, “That blonde human was interested in you.”

“Not my type.”

“Human?”

“The blonde.”

Kíli frowns. “You were pleased with that blonde dwarf lass—“

“Was not,” Fíli (seventy-three years, one-hundred-two hours, eight minutes, five seconds) remarks mildly, before he trips sideways over Kíli’s boots sprawled over the middle of the floor, tips sideways, and hits Kíli’s bed.

Skin touches skin.

Fíli drops dead.

All he hears is the pounding of his heart, until—

Kíli wakes, suddenly, and the pounding of his heart—which is beating fast and loud—turns out to be pounding on the door. His brother is already in bed, and his boots are neatly tucked at the foot of his own, and the fire is banked to dying embers. Fíli mutters, half-asleep, “Get the door, Kee.”

Kíli, wide-awake and wishing desperately for the comfort of touch, stumbles blearily out of bed and feels his way towards the door. He opens it a crack. “Hello?”

His uncle steps in.

Thorin (one-hundred-fifty-eight years, twelve hours, seven minutes, two seconds) is wearing traveling gear. His beard-braids are meticulous, and perfect. Kíli rubs his eyes, stares blankly at his uncle, and tries to calculate the time, but the dream was still a haunting echo over his eyes.

“It is six,” their uncle says by way of greeting.

“You cannot expect us to rise before the sun,” Fíli mumbles, burrowing deeper in bed.

Thorin chooses not to respond to this. Instead he says, “I am to go to the Iron Hills.”

“What?” Kíli is confused. “Why?”

Thorin begins to pace. He takes a deep breath. Then: “I wish to reclaim Erebor.”

This gets his brother sitting up and out of bed. “ _What_?”

“Aye.” Thorin looks grave, sounds graver. “The portents are saying the time is nearing. We shall leave as soon as they look most promising, but I have word from Óin that that will not be for some time yet.”

“Why so early? Why the decision? Why the Iron Hills—“ Kíli asks, in rapid succession.

“To see if any will answer the call. I have four dwarves already offering their services here—“

“Six,” Fíli says immediately, and Kíli feels his brother stop beside him. He is suddenly aware of Fíli’s bare skin and his own bare feet. He inches sideways. “Of course we shall accompany you, Uncle.”

Thorin nods, and something like a smile dances over his face. “I was hoping you would say that. Though certainly, your mother will not be pleased.”

Dís was the farthest thing from pleased.

In fact, she was so un-pleased that she nearly rivaled Smaug himself in ferocity.

But Thorin would not have to deal with her wrath until he returned, so he did not address it; and the boys wisely stayed out of sight of her keen eyes. 

Thorin saddles his pony in the front yard with the help of one of the stable dwarves. Dwalin, after pecking their mother on the cheek like a chaste schoolboy, saddles his own. As their uncle fights rolling his eyes and nods farewell, promising his swift return and turning out onto the road, the stable hand (seventy-seven years, four hours, five minutes, six seconds) drops dead.

An aneurism. In the brain.

Kíli’s fingers twitch and he wonders who would die if he helped the dwarf. He feels Fíli’s hand on his shoulder.

“You can’t save them all, brother.”

Kíli knows his brother is right, yet it hurts, watching the other dwarves—their mother included—race to the aid of the fallen, quickly pulling him inside, face lack and white. He follows them with the rake of his eyes, until they enter the house, and then he asks his brother, without looking:

“Then what is the point of this useless curse?”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, everyone! :) 
> 
> (i won't even try to explain why i decided to do this crossover. the stuff that happens in my brain. i swear.)


End file.
